Free Eye of the Storm by Lee Rowan Page B

at the chateau, and that he wished us to meet him here.”
    “Ah, we had wondered at your interest in our little village. Please, sir, come upstairs. Our countries are at peace, at least for now. There is no reason we cannot converse like civilized men.”
    “Merci, Monsieur.” Marshall wasted no time in ascending the stairs he’d been unceremoniously shoved down half an hour before. He shook hands with Beauchene, who was much younger than he had expected a colleague of Colbert’s to be. Beauchene appeared to be no more than thirty, though he wore spectacles that Marshall would expect to see on a much more elderly man. He was slender, of middle height, with pleasant features, friendly eyes behind the thick lenses, and smooth, light-brown hair pulled back in a short pigtail much like Marshall’s own.
    “Come,” the man said. “You may leave your coat here on this rack, if you wish.” Another coat, probably Beauchene’s own, hung on a carved stand in the foyer, beside the front door. “And then I will introduce you to my mother.”
    “I would be honored.” Marshall left his greatcoat, but felt its absence in a strong draft that ran across the floor when they passed a stone stairway that led downwards, probably to the cellar. As they proceeded down a chilly but elegant gallery, Marshall asked, “Have you heard from Dr. Colbert recently?”
    “I have had letters from him since the treaty was signed, and I believe he has written to my mother; she has a wide correspondence. But no, I have not heard from him lately—not this past month or more. And I have not seen him. Yet he told you he would be here?”
    “I wish it were that simple,” Marshall said. “Dr. Colbert wished to return to France to attend to personal business in Paris. From there, he wrote to his son-in-law, Baron Guilford, asking him to send transportation. The Baron wrote to my employer and friend, Mr. St. John, who is traveling in the area partly for business and partly for pleasure.”
    “For pleasure—in winter?”
    “Yes. He is an adventuresome man, and having bought the ship only recently, he wished to make himself acquainted with it. He has lived in Canada, so to him our weather is quite mild. And, because he is an amiable man and fond of his cousin—he is godfather to one of their children—he agreed to sail by your village and see if we could rendezvous with Dr. Colbert.”
    “That might cause some small awkwardness with the authorities,” Beauchene said tactfully.
    “It would cause a great deal of awkwardness, sir,” Marshall agreed. “Believe me, I realize that, but there was nothing to be done by the time word reached us. Had there been any opportunity to contact the doctor before he left Paris, we would have urged him to choose another rendezvous. We can only imagine that he wished to visit you, perhaps to discuss some mutual scientific interest.”
    Beauchene shook his head. “I would be pleased to see him, naturally, and so would my mother; we do not see our friends as often as we might wish. But we have corresponded little, this past year or more—the war, of course, but also our interests have diverged. His greatest attention is given to natural science, while I have found myself more and more entertained by descriptive geometry, to the neglect of all other studies. Do you know of Gaspard Monge?”
    “Descriptive geometry?” Marshall asked with genuine interest. “I have not studied it. My profession turns my attention to celestial navigation. I am familiar with the work of the great LaGrange.”
    “You should read the works of Monge. He was Minister of the Marine for some time, and his work on the cannon—” Beauchene broke off, and slapped his own forehead. “Je suis fou! No, sir, as an Englishman you should not read Monge. Not at all!” He smiled disarmingly. “I am not a man of war, Captain. I am a scholar, and when I meet a man who knows LaGrange, I cannot call him my enemy. It is seldom that I have the